Talking Head

We checked out Talking Head Wall. I had been once before, about seven years ago. The person I had been at the time resembles someone other than myself. When compared against this prior version of myself, core traits remain intact, yet that individual feels like a stranger. Different pursuits and understandings occupying another sort of occupational role and house situation.

My time in the DC area marks the longest span that I’ve spent in a location as an adult. How I perceive history once coincided with location. College years spent in one place followed by a span in another town which preceded another jurisdiction. I would refer to blocks of history in terms of former residencies. Having been here for a decade, different demarcations serve to define the life voyage.

Further, I had more limited outdoors experience all those years back. Heading to a crag felt momentous, an odd event that carried with it loads of uncertainty and stress. Not that climbing lacks such portents for the incarnation of whom I am. Given a deep-rooted fear of heights, any trip outdoors carries with it the sense of peeling back the boundaries of exploration in terms of self-discovery, growth, along with the literal prospecting of discovering the characteristics of a given route.

Now, with numerous climbing trips in the historical record, today felt akin to so many other climbing days, making the drive feel less poignant in terms of striking out to new experiences. Rather, with Kelly beside me, the morning felt like home. With our hands touching as I sped down I-66 with cruise control maintaining our pace, everything felt in place. All uncertainties ahead of us sparkled, my experiences ahead embedded with her presence. I’ve learned that having her nearby makes happenstances and possibilities ahead glitter as they unfold. As if feldspar, mica, and other crystalline structures make up the atoms around me and ever catch the light.

Generally speaking, these years comprise an era of magic and comfort. Each day, I’m confused by how good everything is despite the shitstorm of the world at large. Near the crag, we passed this house alongside the road. It was a modest domicile, well-maintained. A fine place to call home. Yet, a gigantic confederate flag hung from its porch. I just don’t get it. I mean, I do, but I also don’t. That people shout these symbols from their yards baffles me. I’m truly intrigued and hunger to talk with them, to try to get into their heads as much as tease out to what degree they might be willing to engage. Fascinated as much as disturbed.

Just moments prior we had been at a gas station. Approximately twenty motorcyclists had gathered there. One guy was filling his tank, with the others congregated in a corner section of the lot. They spanned numerous demographics. White, black, Hispanic. Old and young, and ages in-between. It was remarkable and pleasing to see people of varying backgrounds basking in the nice day (for August) as they ride through Shenandoah together. Stark it felt to see that flag a few miles from where we had seen this congregation.

I wondered what the neighbors think of the flag. If they’re not of a similar mindset, it must be a bummer to see that relic each day, especially with it being prominently displayed. Its presence mars the community. For, I think about the area as a whole harboring people who think its meritorious to wave that symbol, which perhaps is unfair to the community as a whole. I suspect that if I see this flag that it does represent a view shared by a portion of those who live nearby, yet surely that percentage is small, and that many residents shake their heads and think, ‘well, damn, this is now how we’ll be viewed as a whole.’ At least, that’s the hope I caress as I continue onward toward the crag.

Climbing went well. Crowded, yet we never had to wait for a route. We popped from one opening to the next, getting on a couple of the “classics” for the area. The grades on the more interesting routes, that is to say the 10s, felt stiff though there was a fun 5.7 with a move or two at a roof that I enjoyed, perhaps more than Kelly did, which isn’t meant to convey that it gave her any problem. The rock all looks like it should cleave from the wall, yet it seems to be solid, despite evidence otherwise. For one route lost a massive boulder in which a bolt had been drilled. You belay next to it, with the bolt staring up at you, a reminder that this sport is inherently dangerous.

We saw some people we know from the gym. They’re friendly. Sharing smiles with people invariably elicits joy. They could harbor hate symbols outside their homes, and I would never know, though I recognize that the odds that they have such possessions is close to null. A family of nine climbed nearby. They kept largely to themselves, though we bantered a touch with the father. Seven kids, all young. It was remarkable. He’d set up a top rope and they’d all give it a run. The older children watched the younger ones. I offered to hang his rope for him, but the timing didn’t work out. Despite this proliferation of youth, climbers in their late twenties were louder and more, and let’s say, “present” than this family, with their gear strewn about and their conversations along with the roar of passing cars on the nearby road the backdrop as you climbed. What people recognize as appropriate or not, all varies, based on background, happenstance, and openness, among other factors.

After a fine day, we stopped at a nearby 7-11 to wash our hands and grab some drinks. Multiple customers entered without masks. As we collected ourselves back in the car, preparing for the drive home, we saw these two guys pull up who just look sort of like trash, as has been defined as a concept for me by society I recognize. Tattooed. Dirty. Disheveled. Oblong. Noisy. No masks and one wore a gun in a holster. Odd. I’d love to interview these guys, but the risk of some sort of conflict arising feels manifest, thus making such an exercise undesirable. I can imagine a world from what I think might be their perspective, but I don’t want to work from stereotypes. I want to give them a chance, and several meanings undergird these words.

That safety concerns related to COVID have become politicized disgusts me. Debate to what extent society needs to shut down. Debate how to conduct research or restrict travel. Hell, debate what you want to call the virus, but to make peoples’ health subject to your political vent plummets straight into immorality. What had been muddy at first has become one of the clearest facts: wearing a mask decreases the spread. And, even if this fact turns out to be incorrect, it’s such a minimal thing. That people have politicized this topic is terrible. Talk of senselessness and you have a prime exhibit here. It saddens me that people with money and power prey on those without either, which, I recognize, is simply how society has worked and shall likely continue to work ad infinitum.

Yet, whom I was decades ago varies from this person today. Personal sensibilities alter. Experiences spark altered conceptions. Dialogue spurs adaption. As we accumulate memories and wisdom, as we stumble and flutter, opportunities to redefine ourselves emerge. I wonder whether a civic duty is to engage with other voices as much as possible. To try to share perspectives. To view one’s past as a sounding ground that produced the present. To recognize that we’re bound together in this life stuff with others and to seek to share insights, for any person might be able to inform another person’s view. Everyone is capable of change. In this regard I am not unique.

How any two people see things need not converge. You can see windmills whereas I see dragons. Yet, should we not be able to converse and share our vantage points? Even interactions with Kelly can be rife with conflict, in terms of what we prioritize or notice. We can consider each other’s behavior to be completely absurd, even unattractive at time, yet what impresses me the most is when we pause and manage to give the other a chance. Which is to say to provide each other some respect.

You don’t need to agree with a viewpoint or give credence that it makes sense to feel some way in response to some stimulus, but rather if you can simply recognize that a person might feel some way in response to some stimulus and accept that aspect of the person then you gain ground nonetheless. And, if in the end, your perspective does make sense, then simply living and not arguing might carry the day ultimately, and, if not, it doesn’t matter.

For, the true story is not the conflicts we win or lose but the wisdoms we accrete. Might it be that people simply fail to get outside of their bubbles and all it takes is new experiences and continued opportunities that might get us from being fearful of the world at large to seeing everything as simply more of the same general life stuff through which we might explore? People push each other way. They simplify their lives to excesses to drive out the need to change. What strikes me about rock climbing is that it helps me break myself down, to undergo stress and redemption, which can arise from success as well as failure on a given route. It reminds me that in daily life to not shrink from fear. One day, perhaps, I’ll work up the nerve to interact more with people who express quite contrary perspectives from my own. For even in my past, such a human exists with whom I can banter.

Refocusing

I’ve entered a covid-19 slump. It’s not that my mood has declined or that repetition of daily cycles has begun to wear me down. At least, I do not believe that such things are at play. Whatever nags at me may lurk below the surface. Of its impetus or scope, I may remain blind, for I admit that the details of this quasi-malaise remain unclear. I do comprehend that each day feels rush. Weeks, as well. That August has arrived reeks of the surreal. Time has accelerated rather than slowed. I’ve compressed more activities into my days, and sans time spent in an office, everything sort of blurs.

The weekends have been busy. My memory of them lessens. They have become blinks of the eye. Imagine that you find yourself in a new location. You only have a second to intake your surroundings. A blink of time, and then the lights go out. You’re asked the draw what you saw during this fleeting span. Within such parameters, I’d be lost. The broad strokes I could provide, but the details would be absent. So resembles my storage capacity for the weekend. They’re clumps of experience, concrete in their overall abstraction yet vague when I scan for their intricacies.

Similarly, the workdays lump together. I rush through them, and they comprise the bulk of each week. Given their ongoing persistent and somewhat repetitive rhythms it seems like I retain more lucid accounts of them, and thus I have the impression that any summary of each week finds that what I can relay regarding work outbalances play. Merriment declines when I face this fact. Depression does not lumber into my days. It’s not dark yet. And, I wouldn’t say that it’s getting there. However, I need to slow down and appreciate the stretches in-between those spent earning financial flow.

One method to appreciate and retain memories shall be to write more. I fell off the narrative wagon once climbing roared back into the scene. The sport occupies much of my free time, in terms of going on trips as well as preparing for them. Similarly, we’ve visited the gym several times, which transforms spans of hours into concentrated blocks of activity. Since we’re not socializing at the gym and you only receive a limited block of time, we see little downtime. Efficiency dictates much of the experience, which has altered how I perceive climbing gym sessions: more work than play. Don’t misunderstand. They’re insanely fun, as usual. I love jumping on a new route to see how it goes, as well as projecting one that stymied me on a prior attempt. The magic remains despite the business-like process which we now follow. Though, I do look forward to engaging in interactions beyond waves and passing hellos that feel more furtive than shared.

Additionally, I endeavor to separate myself from mindless addictions. Much time each day finds me staring at banal content online. RSS feeds. YouTube feeds. News articles. Various websites. Onward go the distractions. Not much of it is meaningful and the content doesn’t last in meaningful ways. I appreciate laughs spurred by videos of cute animals and other related fodder, yet my intake of such distractions could decline while still allowing for such delights to inject smiles into a given day, or even every day. I’d rather go for a walk, take care of chores, interact with a friend, or do most anything else that distracts me as much as the Internet might yet would also provide something more sustainable and fulfilling than moments lost into a phone. Even the downtime, as an example, spent playing Gloomhaven with friends, waiting for a person to select a card, feels more poignant and connective than another minute lost online. The Internet ever lurks at the periphery, enticing me back into its embrace. The hours accumulate and disperse. Simulacra.

Mindfulness is a goal. As is taking moments to appreciate shared laughs, curiosities, quiet pauses, and everything else under our grand sun. That I tried to see Neowise delights me, even though all I managed to espy was a blur that may have been a nebula. Not a bad fate to mistake a nebula for a comet! What a wild universe in which we’re embedded. This weekend shall be replete with splendors. We climb on Saturday and shall catch up with some friends. More time shall be spent with Friends on Sunday. I foresee a run, some cleaning, a touch of gaming, cooking, and various other endeavors. The hours shall flow through activity, and I look forward to it all.